Nandini Verma was 18 when she penned her first story, a tale of passion, betrayal, and revenge. It was a masterpiece, poised for publication. But on the night she was to share her brilliance with the world, tragedy struck. Her abusive father, a figu...
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I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, my heart racing. It was the same nightmare that had haunted me for five years—a recurring torment of that night when my father tried to kill me. The memories were vivid: the fear, the rain-soaked escape, the sight of him digging my grave. The nightmares had become a grim routine, waking me up every night at this hour, 3 a.m.
I lay in the darkness, my mind replaying the chaos. I wondered why the police had never followed up on my case. Had they really dismissed it, or was there something more sinister at play? It had been so long, yet the fear still gripped me like a vice.
I rose from my bed, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. Five years ago, I had fled in terror, running until I collapsed in front of my friend's house whose father worked in the publishing company. She and her family, who knew the dire situation I had escaped from, took me in without question. They provided the sanctuary and care I desperately needed, but I wanted to carve out my own path.
Determined to remain self-sufficient, I poured my energy into writing. Under the pen name Luna, my books were published, achieving success while keeping my true identity hidden. The anonymity was my shield, a necessary precaution in case my father ever came looking for me.
Now, I live in an apartment on one of the highest floors of a modern high-rise. I found solace in the heights, away from the chaos below. Stepping onto the balcony, I looked out at the city lights flickering against the dark sky. The view was calming, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. Here, I could briefly escape the shadows of my past and focus on the fragile peace I had built for myself.
I’m a full-time writer now, but my days are far from just writing. I also spend time working at my friend Nitu Singh’s cafe, a place that has become like a second home to me. Nitu and her family were my lifeline when I had nowhere else to turn. They welcomed me with open arms, even allowing me to take their surname, which is how I came to be known as Nandini Singh.
Nitu’s cafe, a cozy haven tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, is more than just a place to grab coffee. It’s a warm, inviting space with soft lighting, mismatched furniture that gives it a homey feel, and the aroma of freshly baked pastries wafting through the air. I love working here, not just because it offers a change of pace from writing, but because it connects me to the supportive family who helped me rebuild my life.
Despite their insistence, I refuse to accept a salary for my work at the cafe. To me, it’s a way to give back everything they’ve done. I help out every day, whether it’s brewing coffee, taking orders, or chatting with customers. The work is satisfying in its own way, and it allows me to stay grounded while pursuing my writing career.
Thanks to Nitu and her family, I completed my studies and found a new direction for my life. Their support extended beyond just providing shelter; it was their belief in me that made all the difference. They offered me a future when I had none, and working at the cafe is my way of honoring that gift.
